How to Swim With Sharks
by florescentdingo
Summary: Dealing with a traumatic event, Alfred begins to feel the pressure of holding together crumbling relationships with family and friends on top of keeping himself from falling apart in the process. With his life dramatically altered, though, his perceptions change, and suddenly the people he once hated don't seem so bad anymore... Rewrite of "Orange and Black"/RusAme/warnings indside
1. Blue Lips

**POSTED 3:16 AM MARCH 29, 2015**

_So I know it's only been two years, but I think I've learned something, and I'm gonna tell you all a little secret about losing a loved one. When people say "It gets better with time"? __**It's all bullshit.**__ It doesn't get better - not really. When my mom told me that cancer had finally taken my dad from me, I was left with nothing. I wasn't sad, or angry, or scared. All I could think was, "Yeah. Okay," over and over again._

_I didn't think about the future, or the past, it was like time was eternally stuck in that moment and all I could think was, "Yeah. Okay." Well, after a few weeks, things started to change. I got angry. I hurt myself more. I yelled at people more. But most importantly, I started to think about time. Time was once again moving for me, and it terrified me that weeks were passing since I lost my dad. Time wouldn't stop for me, even though it stopped for him. I felt like I was leaving him behind, and that destroyed me, because no matter what, the days kept going by and there was nothing I could do to stop it. When I was letting time pass, I felt things, but they were awful things. It came to a point where, after a while, that feeling of "Yeah. Okay," was as good as it got. It was only when I disassociated with the concept of time did I find an escape from the emotions that crushed me until I was nothing but a sobbing body curled up in my bed._

_After a while, that escape was perceived as happiness, only because I wasn't suffering. And yeah, after a few months, after a year, those times of suffering decreased. But it's never gotten _**better** _. I don't even remember what "better" used to feel like, but I know it wasn't this. I've simply adjusted my standards so that this is the new "good". I still cry until I can't breathe almost every night, and I still can't even hear someone talk about their father without my heart clenching._

_If anyone who's reading this has lost someone they love recently, I'm sorry to be the one to break it to you, but you're life is never going to be the same. It'll change from how it is right now, yes, but it will never resemble what you used to have. If you're sacred because you don't feel like you've improved since they died - don't worry. You probably never will. But you get used to it. You can handle it. Just accept the pain and know that it's part of you now, and you aren't broken for that. But most importantly I'm sorry you have to go through this at all and I'm sorry that people are forever going to tell the lie "it get's better."_

_-A.F.J_

* * *

MAY 23, 2013

They sat together on the curbside, silent after the service. It wasn't a big service with dozens of people making well thought-out speeches and a choir in the back; it was just a service. Size didn't matter when Alfred was still left with this dull weight in his body that kept him seated there, looking past the parking lot with dull eyes. Arthur sat next to him, respectfully keeping quiet and responding for him when a family friend would say goodbye or express condolences as they passed the two on their way out. Alfred wished he could tell Arthur how much he appreciated the other's simple comfort, but he didn't have the words or the energy right now.

It was Alfred's father. It hadn't been more than a week since summer break started, and not more than a week since Alfred's first-day-of-summer wake-up call was his mother coming into his room at seven AM to announce his dad had finally passed away. That was a bad day, and he'd known it was coming. With a diagnosis like Leukemia, death had been unavoidable.

Moving his gaze from the scorching black top to the dusty blue sky, Alfred thought about what would happen next. There was still a full summer ahead of him, and then he and his friends started their junior year of high school. Sitting there with his thoughts, a wave of anxiety twisted its way into his gut. What would his life be like now? He was grateful for Arthur being there. He was grateful that _all _of his friends were there. If it hadn't been for Arthur, Francis, and Kiku, Alfred was sure that he would have had to leave in the middle of the funeral. But Arthur, who was doing a better job at handling him than his own mother, was the real distraction.

They spent the rest of the day and night together hanging out, talking, eating, and playing card games until the early hours. Arthur left late the next morning, offering Alfred a kiss goodbye and a few more words of condolences, reminding him that the phone line was open at any time.

But Alfred didn't pick up the phone for almost a month.

After the service, it had taken less than one more week for their hospice agent to drop by the house to present the urn with his father's ashes. The urn wasn't anything special, just a solid black granite object that would be fated to sit atop the living room coffee table like deadweight. Alfred's mother insisted that it was a modest memorial to honor his father and keep him in their hearts, but Alfred thought she was just trying to use anything she could get her hands on to fill the empty space, not wanting to let go. While she never confirmed it with words, her actions spoke loud enough.

The Monday after the service, she entered their local PetSmart to buy bird-feed for their outdoor feeder, and came out with bird-feed and a dog. Over the summer, she adopted another dog and a cat. Neither Alfred nor his brother was brave enough to remind her she was allergic to both.

The new animals were a welcomed addition, though, and as the days and weeks passed, Alfred, who had never shown an interest in pets before, quickly became fond of them to the surprise of his mother and Matthew.

Matthew. Alfred wasn't sure where he and his brother stood, anymore. He supposed that his brother had always been closer to his mom, while Alfred preferred the company of their dad most of the time, but ever since they'd received the first diagnosis, something happened. The changes came slowly at first. Either Matthew didn't notice, or didn't care. But a wedge was driven between them, along with their mother. It really came down to the differences in how they dealt with the stress.

While the rest of his family stayed optimistic and tried to hold onto hope, Alfred knew from the beginning that this cancer would take his father away from him soon. Sure enough, his dad's health deteriorated faster than anyone expected, and within less than a year, he was gone. In that time, Matthew had taken to being with their mother, talking about feelings and what not. Alfred just couldn't do that, though. Alfred understood that when his mother touched his hand over the dinner table or hugged him before he went to bed, she was only trying to offer comfort. He knew that when Matthew asked constantly, "Are you doing okay? Are you sure?" it only meant Matt was just concerned for him. But he couldn't bring himself to appreciate it. He hated the affection. When his mother grabbed his hand, Alfred couldn't help but flinch and yank his hands back under the table. Getting hugged didn't go much better.

About half a year after the big cancer reveal, Matthew stopped trying. For the first time in months, Alfred had been grateful for something. But their mother wasn't so patient. Instead of following Matthew's example, she took every flinch, every dismissive comment, as a personal insult. She cried and asked Alfred to hug her, then cried harder when he refused. She began to invade his privacy, come into his room without consent and sit on the bed, not leaving until Alfred told her about every detail of that week. And if Alfred ever snapped and told her how uncomfortable he was with her there, she'd snap back with variations of, "I'm your mother, I have a _right_ to be in here." His annoyance with her only spurred his mother to pry even more.

It wasn't until he didn't come to dinner one night for the sake of not having to see her did he realize how far they'd been driven apart by this cycle. Their family's life pre-cancer felt like a dream, it was so different from the disorder they lived in now.

This was a slow kind of isolation. Up until summer, he had still talked with his friends constantly at school, still watched T.V. with his family, still played video games with Matthew, and still spent a lot of his time texting Arthur. Slowly he began to get tired of doing it all, and after the funeral, ten minutes on the phone was enough to tire him. Simply, Alfred had been a mess from the start, but now that his dad had died…it was even worse.

Tonight, they had just finished cleaning up after dinner, and while Matthew was distracted with putting the dishes away, Alfred quietly moved back into his room for the rest of the night. Their biggest dog, a golden retriever named Hero, jumped off of the couch to follow. Alfred didn't want to deal with his family for a while, and hadn't wanted to the whole day. Hero was the only company he really wanted anyway, he just flopped down next to him when Alfred was alone. Hero's familiar warm weight pressed against his side was the only comfort Alfred could appreciate right now. Animals were good. People were a drag.

Not bothering to turn on the lights after shutting the door, Alfred crawled under his covers, waiting for sleep. Waiting, waiting, thinking, thinking, more waiting and more thinking. Alfred wished he could control his mind, maybe then his imagination wouldn't run wild at the most inconvenient times. The paranoia and anxiety that gripped him tonight wasn't unusual, but he was stressed, nonetheless. He still had too many questions and no one to tell him the answers. Answers wouldn't be earth shattering and could wait for another day, but they couldn't wait forever. Alfred wanted relief already.

Instinctively he reached for his phone that had been tossed onto the top of one of his pillows. As he turned it on and typed in the familiar numbers, he vaguely noticed that it was late, about eleven at night. Time seemed to pass at unpredictable paces recently, so the sudden jump didn't throw him off any more than if he had evidently been sitting there for only five minutes. It was all the same. The only time that mattered to him right now was the time that had passed since he dialed Arthur's number.

Every time the phone rung without being followed by a click and familiar, "Hello?" Alfred's heart sunk a little more. He knew Arthur wasn't going to pick up this late, but when the automated message played in his ear, he still felt hurt. Alfred tried a few more times in vain before giving up and trying someone else. Kiku would pick up, wouldn'the? Alfred never learned the answer; apparently in the past few weeks the Japanese boy had gotten a new phone and the old number was no longer in service. After trying a few more of friends, Alfred called it quits and tossed the phone aside where it would probably end up lost among the thick folds of his covers. A weight was beginning to press down on him, and only then did Alfred realize how alone he was right now. His room was cold and still, empty except for him and his dog. From where he sat, it was easy to believe that there wasn't a world outside of these walls. But when he moved his gaze out the only window that still had it's blinds pulled up, he could see the street and the houses around them, some just black shapes in the night, others standing out with warm, soft glows of light seeping out from the inside. Even further in the distance he could see over the roofs of the neighborhood, past suburbs and to the start of the city, where it was still radiating with light and life and movement. Even from here inside his bedroom Alfred didn't have to strain his ears too much to hear the constant murmur of traffic. When he took a moment like this to remember that the world was still turning, a strange feeling came over him. It was like he was stuck behind a wall of glass, watching time passing on planet earth, and he could see everyone living out their life, making decisions, and moving forward. But he wasn't a part of it, any of it, whether or not he was there didn't make a difference. He was stuck, and it scared him. Alfred wasn't sure what to do about this.

After a small debate with himself, he got off the bed and left his bedroom. The hallway was dark, much like his room, and seeing that there was no glow of light from around the corner that led to the living room and kitchen, he assumed the rest of the house was unlit as well. No one else was awake. Hero had climbed down from his perch on the covers and was now standing behind Alfred curiously sniffing his hand and looking around, tail wagging contentedly. With a hard swallow, Alfred turned around and led the two of them back to his room where he closed the door, turned on the fan for white noise, and climbed under the covers, hoping if he just tried again, he'd be able to sleep this bad feeling off.

But sleep didn't come any more easily the second time around than the first. He tossed and turned under the covers, unable to find a position that could lull him to sleep, and at one point his frustration became violent, and with a good flick of his arm under the covers, Alfred accidentally hit his phone, launching it onto the floor with a loud thud. A sudden bright light escaped from under the face of the phone, lighting the floor and the space around it. Groaning in more frustration, Alfred flung the covers off without much care so he could pick his phone off the floor and put it away.

Perhaps it was a pure coincidence that Alfred felt that small notion of curiosity when he saw the bright screen; the last thing to be opened on his screen was his text messaging inbox. Alfred scrolled through the different conversations until he reached the bottom, where an old message glared at him through the bright screen, the three letters that made up the contact name, "DAD" seemed to mock him. A jolt of pain was felt in Alfred's heart as he read that name, and he scrambled to turn his phone off immediately. But he had seen it. Hesitantly, he turned the phone back on, and selecting the unopened conversation, he began to read what his father's last messages were.

_Feb 27, 3:36 PM: "it's3.30p &amp; just leaving work. I'll b there inabout 20 min. have phone on so i can call when i get there."_

_Mar 20, 3:39 PM: "I'm in Library parking...about 3rd car from your left 1st (front) row as you come from library."_

_Mar 25, 8:09 AM: "The 2 liter bottle is in office one right where shelves are...next to bottom shelf. Dad"_

Alfred remembered the day the last one was sent. His English class was having a party that day, and he'd forgotten the soda he had signed up to bring on his way out of the house. He never did say thank you for that. It seemed like he never said thank you to anything. Alfred couldn't believe he had spent the last sixteen years being so ungrateful for anything his father did. At the time, it never seemed like much. It was just what he expected. But looking back now those years seemed like a dream, a fantasy, something he'd read and memorized, but couldn't grasp that it was real. Laughing at something rather unintelligent his dad said was a fact of the past. He remembered sitting in the driveway for an hour after being brought home just to listen to his dad explain scientific concepts in unnecessary detail, but in such passion that Alfred didn't mind when he got off topic or went on for so long that the air inside the car cooled. There were times when he'd go to his mom for help on math homework, just to end in an argument over how it should be done and Alfred would leave to find his dad, instead, who would undoubtedly try to solve the problems in the hardest way possible. They used to drive to school almost every morning together, listening to songs off of his dad's iPod that they both knew were only on there because Alfred liked them. When Alfred was nine and his pet tarantula began to molt and he cried because he thought it was dead, but his dad stayed up until midnight with him trying his best to show that the spider was just fine. All of these small things that seemed negligible were imperative for Alfred's childhood, and he would never get that back. Ever.

Weeks of nothing but shutting down and denial had passed, but now it finally hit Alfred that his dad was gone, and the walls broke down. The tears came quicker than the sobs, but soon after the drops had turned into small streams, his voice rose with every choked breath he let out. Alfred pressed his face into the pillow, not caring that it was slightly disgusting how damp the fabric already was.

He couldn't tell how long he'd been crying for. Not long after his breakdown began, Hero had flopped down in front of Alfred, pressed up heavily against his chest. Alfred hugged the dog tightly, trying to find comfort in the soft clumps of fur under his fingers. He loved his dog so much, but it pained him to accept that it wasn't enough right now. There were two people in the house he could go to right now, but in the morning they'd bring it up and he'd regret ever seeking comfort in them. At least that's what would happen if Alfred went to his mother. But Matthew, just maybe, would understand just a little more.

Alfred removed his trapped arm from under Hero, and taking a few deep breaths, he got out of bed again and left his room, going down to the other end of the carpeted hallway where his brother's room was. He opened the door, his chest heavy.

Alfred had to stop for a moment and just look at his brother, who had fallen asleep in the chair and leaned over his desk, a pencil still loosely gripped in his right hand. A lamp was still on, bathing Matthew's blond hair in cheap yellow light. Quietly, Alfred moved to the desk and turned out the light for Matthew. It may have been the noise, but after Alfred flipped the switch, Matthew began to stir.

"Sorry," Alfred whispered. His eyes were already adjusted to the dark, so he could see Matthew jump a little at the sudden voice.

"Huh? Oh, uh, no it's okay." After a small pause between them, Matthew asked why Alfred was in his room so late, his groggy voice laced with confusion.

"I..." what was Alfred supposed to say? "I just - just couldn't be alone, didn't want to be alone."

"Alfred, what's wrong?"

Alfred didn't give a reply, but grabbed a handful of Matthew's loose red hoodie and rested his head on his brother's shoulder, having to kneel down behind the chair to make the height difference less awkward. He had to say something, but in the dark with only the sound of his sniffling and shaking exhales, Alfred couldn't find the words to explain this situation. After Matthew asked gently a few more times, he decided to speak. "It just hit me."

"What? Alfred come on, what's wrong?"

"I just realized that dad's gone."

There was a pause before Matthew exhaled, "Oh," and scooted off the side of the chair, sliding onto the floor next to Alfred so he could wrap his arms around him. Alfred didn't know what to do at first - hugs were so foreign to him - but he pushed his weight into Matthew's chest after a small hesitation, and his hands found refuge bunched up in the fabric on Matthew's back.

For a few minutes, Alfred nearly lost himself in the warmth in front of him, and he felt centered. It didn't take long for Alfred to calm down, and as his mind cleared a little, he became aware of the soft sniffs that Matthew let out every once and a while. Alfred finally felt the full weight of exhaustion begin to drag him down.

"Can I sleep in here tonight?" he asked

Matthew mumbled a small "Of course" into Alfred's shoulder.

Sharing a bed was something they hadn't done since at least five years ago, but they were both too tired to care much. Alfred was finally able to fall asleep. Despite waking up about an hour later and returning to his own room to sleep (Hero was still lying on the bed, taking up most of it when he got there), Alfred couldn't remember sleeping as well as he did that night.

When Alfred woke up at noon the next day, he could see through his window that the sky was overcast. Alfred had decided a long time ago that overcast days were best. The city reflected the mood of the sky, and for at least a little while, Alfred felt like he wasn't out of place, like his own mixed and muted emotions weren't a stark contrast to the energy and hyperactivity that usually hummed through the atmosphere.

Alfred lay in bed, shifting and stretching each of his limbs until his body felt somewhat awake enough to even think about any big movement – starting with rolling onto his stomach to check the clock. He reached toward his bed stand and pushed down on the top of his pillow to see. It was only 12:30, still early for Alfred's standards. Alfred gracelessly slumped his back against the mattress again and nuzzled his head into the pillows. He didn't know if he wanted to do anything right now.

It was an apprehension rooted in two somewhat unrelated causes: on one hand, he was worried he'd run into Matthew, who would take one look at Alfred and recall the events of last night, then write him off as hopeless, vulnerable, and maybe just plain weak. But on the other, he was already becoming anxious because the seconds were ticking by too fast, and seconds would turn to minutes, then to hours, and eventually another day would have passed him by, wasted. Sometimes it felt like he was running out of time no matter what he spent it with, but what was waiting for him at the end, he didn't know, so it was impossible to tell what he was supposed to be doing. He just needed to do _something_.

Finally, after lying there indecisively for another half-hour, Alfred's neck and back began to cramp. He sat up on the edge of the bed and with a groan, managing to pull himself out of the bedroom for yet another day. Hero was curled up in front of the door, still asleep, but when Alfred cracked the door open to nudge the dog a few times, Hero jumped up out of the way.

The dog scampered down the hallway, probably alerting anyone in the house that Alfred was up. However, upon entering the kitchen he was greeted with the sight of Matthew at the kitchen table, not watching the entrance in anticipation for Alfred's arrival, but skimming over pages in that day's newspaper. Seeing his brother's face brought up memories of falling apart in front of Matthew the night before. More anxiety constricted in his chest when he wondered what Matthew thought of him now. He must think he was a wreck. In his mind, Alfred was convinced he'd screwed up last night. He was doing so well and finally mastering the art of holding everything inside, but he had been wrong, apparently. That was bad enough, but Matthew had seen it all, seen those walls come crashing down, and he just _had_ to be disappointed, or at least disgusted. It was embarrassing.

Suddenly, interacting with his brother didn't seem like such a good idea right now. Alfred was prepared to turn around and hurry back to the safety of his room, but he wasn't paying attention to the objects directly around him. Turning too fast and misjudging his angle, Alfred promptly ran his side into the couch, letting out a soft curse directed at the unexpected obstacle. It was too late to leave now; Matthew had turned around at the noise and was looking at Alfred quizzically, obviously not impressed, but amused at his brother's slip-up.

"Forget where the furniture is?" Matthew asked, his playful tone making Alfred feel more embarrassed than he already was.

"Uh, yeah, apparently," Alfred huffed, mentally scolding himself for his clumsiness and standing awkwardly with his hand wrapped around the side of his abused abdomen. He shifted his weight from one foot to another until Matthew spoke up again.

"You don't usually get up this early. Did you want something?"

"Not really, no," Alfred said, strained. It wasn't exactly a lie; Alfred couldn't think of a single thing he wanted right then.

"Want me to make you some food?"

"No, it's okay."

"Are you sure? I really wouldn't mind. I'm feeling kind of hungry now anyway, so I could just make some for both of us." Matthew had set the paper down and gotten up, wondering toward the kitchen cabinets while talking to Alfred.

"No, I'm not hungry."

Matthew stopped with the cabinet door halfway open and looked back at his brother, expression hard to read.

"Alfred… I don't want to get on your case about this or anything, but you've been saying that for a few weeks. It's not really normal for you."

Saying it wasn't normal was an understatement, in all honesty. Matthew didn't want to make a big deal out of it and make Alfred so uncomfortable that he'd stop talking and go into hiding again. He wasn't going to say this out loud, but Matthew had really thought the events of last night meant progress for his brother. It felt like he hadn't seen Alfred in so long, he'd hate to mess it up now by throwing big questions on his brother so soon. But this was serious. Though he couldn't see much with Alfred's thick sweatshirt and pajama pants, he got the feeling that there was a lot more empty space under the clothing than there used to be.

His concern wasn't eased when Alfred simply shrugged and became quiet again. Getting the feeling that he was pushing it, Matthew quickly left the subject alone. "Never mind, I can wait until you get hungry. Though... do you think that might be a while?"

Alfred nodded, "Yeah, probably."

"Okay. How about we do something today then? Get out of the house?"

Out of the house. The idea wouldn't scare Alfred so much had he still been confident that he could keep it together. But now, after last night, who knew what would happen if he exposed himself like that. It could be disastrous. Alfred shook his head and muttered something that could have been a no, but wasn't clear enough for Matthew to tell.

"I think we should. What if I invited Arthur? He could tag along, make it a sort-of-date for you guys."

"Arthur?" Alfred was paying attention now at the mention of his boyfriend, who'd definitely been neglected for a little too long at this point.

Alfred felt guilty, he really did. Arthur didn't deserve to be ignored like this, but Alfred just had no interest in seeing him lately. He knew he had to start paying attention to the other soon, otherwise he'd either get mad and leave, or get bored and leave. Alfred didn't know what would hurt more.

Reluctantly, Alfred nodded after a few moments of contemplation. "Okay... yeah, okay, we can do that."

"Really?" Matthew's face lit up. "Great, alright, you call Arthur, and I'll see what the soonest movie showing is and get tickets from Fandango or something," he said excitedly as he moved about the kitchen, throwing the newspaper in the recycling basket before leaving in a hurry.

Alfred returned to his own room to find his cellphone, which was probably still lost somewhere under the covers.

He really didn't want to call Arthur; Alfred just knew he was going to sound stupid asking Arthur out after weeks of no attempted contact. It wasn't just that, though. Alfred could admit that he was feeling a little bit of resentment for Arthur for not answering his phone when Alfred needed him most last night. But Matthew was expecting Alfred to call and there wasn't a way out of it now. Grimacing, he found his phone and typed in Arthur's number. He waited in trepidation as the phone rung for the other to pick up.

Arthur's voice was both familiar and foreign as it flooded the earpiece with a surprised, "Alfred?"

He tried to breathe correctly. "Yeah, hey Arthur."

"Wow, I-I didn't expect you to call right now. I mean it's really been a while."

Alfred didn't need reminding. He tried to move on from that topic quickly. "Sorry about that... um, Matthew wanted me to ask you if you'd want to come out with us today. We're seeing a movie, and, well, yeah."

"Oh. Yeah, alright, I can do that," Arthur's voice sounded a little dejected for some reason. Alfred wanted to ask what was wrong but couldn't think of how to before Arthur started talking again and asked, "What time?"

"I don't know, text my brother. He's the one finding the movie."

"You didn't plan this?"

"No," Alfred felt a little flustered at that, it's not like it was his idea, "Mattie just randomly told me we should get out and see a movie like five minutes ago. I don't why, he just thought it was a good idea." He internally winced at that. It came out just slightly more defensive than he'd meant. "I don't know, I guess he does that sometimes-" (actually he really doesn't) "-Anyway, so you can come?"

"I don't have anything else to do, so time isn't a problem. I'll just ask Matthew and get details from him."

"Okay. Sorry I'm not more helpful."

There was a pause on the other end.

Arthur's tone was caring when he spoke again. "No, it's okay Alfred, it's not a problem. I'll see you there then, I suppose?"

Alfred inwardly sighed in relief that the conversation was finally over. "Yeah, I'll see you then. Bye."

"Bye, love you."

"Y-yeah, love you, too... Bye," Alfred stumbled and hung up in a hurry. The words felt weird in his mouth, like he wasn't supposed to be saying them. It really _had_ been a long time since he talked to Arthur.

He put on a slightly cleaner pair of sweats and a t-shirt that must have been washed wrong because it had definitely not been this loose on him when he first bought it. After stuffing his phone into one of the deep pockets in his pants, he found his tennis shoes and forcefully shoved them onto his feet, scraping his fingers in the process. He left his room to find Matthew, who was in the kitchen printing out what, Alfred assumed, were the movie tickets. Standing silently by the entrance, Alfred watched as Matthew's phone buzzed with a text that could only be from Arthur..

Matthew sent a quick message back and turned to look at Alfred expectantly. "You ready?"

"Yup. By the way, where's mom?"

Matthew looked at Alfred curiously, "She told us at dinner she was going to the school to meet with the principle about next year, remember?"

No, Alfred definitely did not remember, but it was better if Matthew didn't know that. They left the house in Alfred's car, though he didn't drive. That was one more thing he wouldn't admit to anyone: he barely remembered how to get anywhere.

As it would turn out, the theater really wasn't as far away as Alfred remembered and hoped it would be. In less than twenty minutes they were already finding a place to park in the crowded lot, and with that taken care of, Alfred was out of time to avoid seeing Arthur. Walking towards the theater doors, he could already see the mop of blonde hair and thick eyebrows pulled together in Arthur's signature bitch-face. To be fair, Arthur had a natural talent for appearing angry regardless of how he was actually feeling, but it was true that Arthur was also naturally angry most of the time, anyway.

He could have a bit of a temper, but he tried to be as polite as possible. There were a few certain people that Arthur couldn't care less about being polite to, and if you put any of them together, he could pick a fight like no one Alfred had ever seen before. There was one boy in particular, Francis Bonnefoy. It was hilarious to watch those two bicker; their relationship couldn't be more stereotypical. Arthur Kirkland's family had moved to the states from Britain when Arthur was in sixth grade, and Francis was of French decent, with parents who still dominantly spoke in French at home. The fact of Francis and Arthur's almost-rivalry was old hat, but no one really knew what that relationship was. Their conversations may have been never-ending loops of insults, jabs, and petty bickering, but they made quite the pair when they wanted to work together. Alfred considered Francis a good friend, and watching Francis and Arthur fight? It was better than cable TV.

Francis was yet another friend Alfred had failed to keep in touch with recently. Briefly, he wondered if those two had stayed close this summer during his own absence.

He and Matthew caught Arthur's eyes, and Arthur smile as he waved them over. Matthew waved back, the two of them exchanging quick greetings, and Alfred tried to smile back just as brightly. When they reached him, Alfred considered going in for a hug - it seemed like something he should do - but he couldn't tell if Arthur would want something like that after Alfred had actively avoided him for almost a month. He decided to do it anyway, and was able to let out a breath when Arthur eagerly returned the embrace, smiling.

With his head turned away from Arthur's face for the moment, Alfred missed the falter in Arthur's smile as his arms pressed into Alfred's side. He didn't see how Arthur shot Matthew a confused and worried glance, then fixed the smile back on his face before pulling away to lead the group inside.

"Al, you wanna buy the snacks for everyone while Arthur and I find the seats?" Matthew asked once they were stopped in the back of the line for refreshments.

Alfred nodded, "Um, sure?" They didn't usually split up like that, but he could roll with it. Matthew gave Alfred one of the tickets, shot him a quick thanks and the theater number so Alfred could find them once he had everything, then led Arthur away, leaving Alfred alone in line to buy everything.

Once out of his brother's sight, Matthew lowered his voice to make sure no one could hear them and asked, "So, I'm not the only one who noticed?"

"Noticed what?" Arthur asked in return, matching Matthew's particularly hushed tone.

"Al. He's... I don't know what's going on. I don't think he's purposefully not eating or anything, he just isn't. I thought I was just imagining it because I barely see him anymore- figured I was just never there when he ate, but this morning I noticed that he really does look a lot thinner than before any of all this bad stuff started happening."

Arthur's expression changed from confused to serious. When he spoke, he sounded regretful. "Yes, I definitely noticed that, too. In all the time we've been together he's never felt like that when I held him, not even remotely. Do you know how long this has been going on? I feel like he started losing weight before summer, I just never noticed it then with all his absences from school and such. He was definitely acting different at the funeral, that's for sure."

"I have no idea," Matthew sighed as they opened the door to Theater 9, darkness hiding their faces. "Like I said, I thought I was imagining it up until today."

They found an empty row near the back and sat in silence for a while, each processing this new information.

It was Arthur who spoke again. "And you're sure it isn't on purpose? I mean, I've never heard of, well, you know…_that_ happening to men, but I don't see why it couldn't. He was always self-conscious about his size - which was ridiculous, honestly, he was fine - but I know that after something bad happens, people can, well, they can get sucked into some nasty mind-sets."

Matthew considered it for a while. "I don't know, honestly. There's just no way I can tell, it's just- he's always in his room. Always. Last night was the first time in weeks I've really seen him, and I live with him. It's just so different, you know? Not like him at all. If last night was anything to go by... I think he's just _sad_. Depressed. Whatever it is."

Arthur began to pick at the lint on his pants and asked, "What happened last night? You've mentioned it twice now."

"Oh, well, I don't know if it's my place to say anything about that, it was pretty personal," Matthew shifted in his seat to look at Arthur, "I won't go into detail for Al's sake, but I think it just finally got to him. I think he finally understood what happened."

Arthur's expression softened and he looked down, shaking his head. "Oh, Alfred. God, I'm so sorry, Matt. You two don't deserve any of this. How are _you_ holding up?"

"Me? Well, I mean I'm not any less upset by what happened to dad than Alfred is, but I think I'm handling it a little better. I've been able to talk to our mom a lot more than he's willing to. What can you do, though? I just don't know how to help him without pushing him too hard." Matthew shrugged. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Alfred coming up the steps with his arms full of drinks, popcorn, and boxes of candy. The conversation was over, and Matthew and Arthur silently agreed to drop the subject and pretend that their talk never happened, at least around Alfred.

The movie started, and Arthur was sure it must have been a good one by the way Matthew and Alfred had their eyes pinned to the screen the whole time, but all he could do was watch to see if Alfred ate his snacks. Arthur was momentarily pleased to see him drink the whole bottle of Coke, but was quickly disappointed when the Alfred didn't touch anything else after that. After the movie, Arthur asked Alfred to stay behind for a moment while Matthew left to pull the car around.

"Yeah, what's up?" Alfred asked. He looked nervous.

"How are you doing?"

He already knew what the answer would be.

"I'm good," Alfred replied noncommittally. They both knew it was a lie.

"Hmm." Arthur hummed. He didn't sound convinced, but Alfred was grateful he didn't push. "I haven't seen you in a while. Haven't heard much from you either."

Alfred scratched the back of his head, "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. Just never got around to it, I guess. I'll try to call more often from now on, okay?"

"You better, I'm starting to get lonely," Arthur teased, pushing Alfred's shoulder playfully in an attempt to lighten the mood. He was pleased to see his joking got a small cracked smile out of Alfred. "Now get out of here," he said as he pulled Alfred along, out to where Matthew had pulled the car up next to the curb, "You're ride's here."

Alfred genuinely smiled then, and waved goodbye to Arthur as he got in the car, thanking Arthur for seeing the movie with them. As they drove off, Arthur tried not to be irritated at not getting something more than that goodbye, like a kiss or another hug. He reminded himself that if Alfred wanted to kiss or hug him right then, he would have.

Back at his own home, Arthur wasted no time in picking up the phone to call Francis. What he learned today about Alfred was important, and he wasn't naïve; he knew that whatever was going on could become so much worse. It was best if as many of their friends were aware of the situation as possible. Alfred needed the help.

When Francis picked up, he sounded amused. "What, did you want to hear an insult so badly you had to call me?"

"Oh, shut up, this is important," he started, not in the mood for their usual banter.

"Oh? Must be, if you're calling me about it," Francis said, only slightly more seriously this time.

"I don't feel like calling every person to tell them, so I'm just going to tell you and trust you to pass the important details on to the right people."

"I'm listening?"

"It's Alfred," Arthur sighed into the phone, ruffling his hair in frustration.

There was a pause and the sound of shuffling on the other end. "Alfred? You spoke to him?"

"Saw him, actually. But everything I'm about to tell you is mostly from his brother. Only a little is what I saw for myself."

"You saw him? When? I didn't think anyone had seen him since the funeral."

"They didn't. Apparently I'm the first person outside of their family to have seen him since. Though, Matthew told me that even he and their mother haven't seen much of him."

"What's going on, then? Is he okay?"

Arthur started picking at his clothes again. "I don't know. It doesn't seem like it, to be honest. He's just… not himself, and he's lost a lot of weight. I felt it, Matthew saw it. Matt said he hasn't really been eating or talking to anyone for weeks now. Said he's just sad but...I guess Al had some kind of breakdown last night? I didn't get any details so it's hard to say how bad it was, but it sounded pretty big to me, judging by the way Matthew talked about it."

"Is he - You don't think he's doing it on purpose, do you?"

"Can't tell. It's just so unlike him, it was like he was a completely different person when I saw him today. Actually, it was like he wasn't even there." Arthur kept switching between worrying at the non-existent lint on his clothes and rubbing his fingers through his hair, trying to sooth the headache he felt coming.

"No, that doesn't sound like him at all."

"Exactly," Arthur sighed. "I'm just worried, Francis. I was going to talk to him afterwards, but from the way Matthew was speaking, it sounded like it wouldn't do any good to do that. Alfred just isn't talking to anyone."

"Shit..."

"I don't know how to help. I really want to, and I'm going to try talking to him about it soon, but I think I'm going to need you and all our other friends to help."

"Of course, this is important."

"Thanks, Francis."

"Thank you for telling me," Francis said sincerely.

They hung up after that, and Arthur was left to his own thoughts. What was he going to do? What the hell could he do?

At least he had Francis there to help.


	2. Into the Ocean

This meeting was fucking with Alfred's mind.

After he and Matthew had gotten home from the movies, they found that their mother had also returned from her meeting with the high school's principal.

"What did he say?" Matthew asked her, seconds after entering the living room to find their mother sitting on the couch, flipping through channels on the T.V.

She set down the remote, and Alfred felt anxiety knot in his stomach as she looked directly at him. His mother then told him that the principal wanted to meet again, with Alfred there. Not Matthew. Not him and Matthew. Just Alfred, alone with his mother and principal. It only took a moment to process that fact, and Alfred gave a blunt, "Okay," with a small shrug, before turning the corner and going straight back to his room, where he stayed until dinnertime, as usual.

He'd spent a few hours with Matthew today (and with Arthur, not that that mattered now), and all fear he'd had that morning had, for a while, been erased. The movie was good, albeit sitting between the two other boys had been incredibly uncomfortable (he felt like he was taking up too much space, why didn't they just let him take the isle seat?). But it felt like magic how suddenly Alfred had felt like he and his brother were back to normal, like how it was…before.

But then he had to be singled out yet again - the problem child. Of course Matthew didn't have to meet with the principle. Matthew was handling everything perfectly fine. It was just Alfred that couldn't get over it already, wasn't it? And as suddenly as they had been back to normal, Alfred felt deep resentment for his brother that he didn't know what to do with. So he locked himself in his room, finding that all the safety in the world was right there in his own four walls and under his covers. He was safe from hurting his brother, and safe from being ripped apart by his own violent mood swing.

Only a couple of days later, Alfred was sitting in the principal's office at a small round table in the corner, the school counselor sitting in the opposite chair. His mother hadn't told him that the counselor would be there to do an evaluation on him. But here he was, sitting in front of the dark skinned man with thin, black hair that was flattened to his balding head in greasy curls. It was just repulsive enough to distract Alfred from what the counselor was actually saying.

"_Alfred_," the man sternly brought Alfred's attention back to the conversation.

"_What_?" Alfred bit back. He hesitated and pressed his lips together, looking slightly to the left to look at the shelves full of white binders, probably full of student information. He hadn't meant to respond so harshly.

"Would you be opposed to starting medication for your depression if I referred you to a professional psychiatrist?"

Depression. _How depressing_, Alfred mentally joked. He didn't need a freaking counselor to tell him what was wrong with him. He knew he was depressed. But what Alfred really didn't need was some crumby old dude telling him he needed to take medication. Medication couldn't help him. Alfred wouldn't really be happy, it'd just be drugs in his brain making him _think _that he was; his "improvement" would all be a lie. And it pissed Alfred off that this guy was trying to convince him otherwise. But there was no use fighting it, he had to convince this guy he wasn't crazy or about to try to take himself out or anything.

"I guess not…" Alfred mumbled as he stared at his hands, picking slightly at the skin near his wrist.

"Excellent," the counselor reached behind him to steal a sticky note and pen from the principal's desk and began to write down the name and number of what Alfred assumed was this professional psychiatrist. It wasn't that big of a deal, he could probably convince whoever this was that he didn't need to be on any fucking meds.

Alfred thought that this would be the end of their session, and expected the counselor to go out into the hall to fetch his mother and the principal, but instead, he handed Alfred the sticky note, then crossed his hands and looked at Alfred intensively. Alfred knew instantly that the next question wasn't going to be pleasant to answer.

"So Alfred, regarding your classes next year. How do you think you'll be able to perform in them?"

How should he respond? Was he supposed to say that he thinks he'll do well? Should he tell the truth and say that he can barely handle going to the movies with his brother and boyfriend without feeling like he was doing something wrong, nevertheless go to seven classes a day for eight hours where he actually _knows _he's always going to be screwing something up because he's an awful student? Alfred just didn't know why the counselor was asking. He couldn't predict what the right answer was going to be.

The counselor spoke again before Alfred had a chance to scramble for an answer, "I'm just asking because I wanted to let you know that, if you think classes may be too stressful, there are options to help with that. We only offer the option to take a partial leave or a full year break to students who have very special needs, and after talking to you for a while now I feel like this could benefit you. But it's up to you."

Partial leave.

_A full year break_.

This was too much for Alfred to handle.

He stumbled over a pitiful, "I don't know," and immediately tried to cover by telling the counselor, with a false air of confidence, that he wanted his mother and the principal in there with him to talk about it.

The counselor seemed pleased and got up to usher them back in, where he explained to them what he had told Alfred. The principal said that he wouldn't be opposed to offering Alfred whatever Alfred thought he needed. This left him and his mother to talk about it between the two of them. Secretly, Alfred hoped she would make the decision for him. But disappointingly, there was no such luck.

Instead she turned to him, with this annoyingly concerned expression, and asked, "Well, sweetie? What do you want to do? Do you think it'd be good to just take a year off, or at least take a partial leave?"

Honestly, now that it had been brought up, the idea of not having to take school for a whole year lifted an enormous weight off of Alfred's chest. If he just said yes, he could be free for a whole year. Free to isolate himself and find a way to never have to go back to that place again.

He hated school. It may have been a private school that prided itself on it's diversity of students and all-honors classes that prepared the kids for college, but it was toxic. Alfred supposed that's what happens when you take all of the "special" children and lump them together in a place where _no one _is special. The atmosphere was too competitive, and the students in his grade were unkind - no matter where you stood on the social ladder. The mindset that permeated the student body was: everyone has the ability to do something perfectly, and if you don't do it perfectly, you weren't doing your best, and if the work you put out isn't your best, it's a failure. Alfred had seen students crying over an 85% on a test. Anything less than perfect was a failure - and he failed a lot. Needless to say, it didn't make him feel all too eager to return. If he could just get rid of all of that…

But then he wouldn't see his friends again. Not for a whole year. He hadn't actively made an effort to contact anyone for over a month now; why would that change in a few more? Plus, taking a year off? It felt like giving up. If he said yes, everyone in the room would look down on him for being so weak, for not doing his best. He may not be able do much correctly, but if he told them he wanted to stay in school, maybe they'd at least believe that he really was trying.

So a year off was out of the question. But a partial leave? That…it could work. Maybe. It still left a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was better than giving up and not trying at all, but only half an effort was almost worst. Making half an effort was proof that he was capable of making a full effort but too lazy to carry it out. At least taking the whole year off might make people believe that Alfred really was struggling. But. That whole giving up thing was begging to eat at his nerves at an alarming rate. Alfred just had to make a choice and live with the consequences of how people viewed him for it.

Finally, he spoke. "I think…I think a partial leave would be good, I guess."

His mother gave a sad smile and nodded, gently grasping his hand on the table as she looked to the principal for confirmation. Alfred resisted the urge yank his hand back to himself and yell at her not to touch him.

"I think we can make that work," the counselor said as he leaned back, giving his mother an understanding smile. It made Alfred sick.

"What classes will Alfred have to drop? Will it affect his transcript" his mother turned to the principal with a small air of urgency about her. The transcript wit was all she'd talk about last year during report card season.

His thoughts turned to mundane observations about the room as he tried to remove himself from the conversation between the counselor and his mother about setting up an appointment with a psychiatrist. When his mother squeezed his hand harder, all he could do grimace and retreat further into his thoughts of anything but the office. Alfred just wanted to go home, but that wasn't an option yet. So he focused on Arthur, on what would happen if he got together with Arthur again, just the two of them. Arthur could listen to him. Alfred would tell him everything, he really would. That's what Arthur clearly wanted him to do after all. He could just rant for hours to him, maybe have dinner together, watch a movie at home, and things could be patched up between them.

Even as the meeting was wrapped up, as he mechanically and inattentively shook hands with the principal, and as his mother drove them home, his thoughts lingered on the Brit and his new plan for another date. Alfred's daydreams effectively blocked out any words of encouragement his mother tried to give him.

* * *

When Alfred got inside his room, his checkered red and black backpack caught his eye. It was a foreign object now, despite having worn it everyday for eight months not that long ago, technically. But his backpack denoted school, homework, textbooks, pencil bags, and English books – all things that hadn't been a part of his life since his father had been put in the ICU.

He approached the abandoned book bag that had been cast uncaringly into a corner near the pile of shoes that had no use anymore. It was exactly where he'd left it over a month ago, the last time he came home from school. The bag hadn't been touched since, and Alfred could barely even remember what was in there.

_Ah, what the hell_, he thought, and crouched down, unzipping the thing and pulling out the contents: a couple of binders, held together by duct tape at the spines after they'd been reused for years; a heavily annotated copy of _Catcher in the Rye_, his favorite book that they read last year; a lot of dirty, crushed, and torn papers, most of them from old homework assignments that he hadn't bothered to check the grade on before shoving them into the depths of his backpack.

It was all so…expected.

Alfred sat on the floor there for a few more minutes, staring at his backpack somberly. He didn't know what he had expected, but now that he was thinking about it, there was no reason for there to be anything exciting in there. He wasn't that interesting of a student. Even the backpack itself was underwhelming. Alfred had seen at least three other kids with the exact same one last year. It'd been the first one he'd picked out without parental guidance, and he didn't want to get anything too expensive and make them mad.

He began to remember the first time he got to accompany his dad when they were buying school supplies for him and Matthew before they started sixth grade.

First year of middle school, he bought a Marvel-themed shoulder bag from the school's bookstore to carry all of his books and papers in. Alfred remembered arguing with his dad about the style – his dad thought he should stick to a traditional backpack, for the sake of his shoulders, but Alfred had already set his sights on that dinky little bag when his parents had taken him and his brother to buy supplies after the 6th graders' orientation. Admittedly, he knew his dad's logic was sound, but it was 6th grade, and he wanted to look cool in front of his new class with his edgy shoulder bag. For that year, at least, it worked out just fine. The students never had more than ten pounds worth of textbooks to lug around at once, and the west campus was condensed enough that the travel time between classes was only a few minutes – no scoliosis for Alfred. So ultimately, not owning a regular backpack wasn't an impediment to his physical well being in 6th grade, but to his disappointment and embarrassment, it didn't do anything for his social standing, either. Alfred stood out, but not in the way he wanted. He couldn't tell my parents that he wanted a new backpack (due to both his bruised pride and financial reasons), so he had to find another way to draw positive attention to himself.

Lockers seemed to be the big thing at that time, and Alfred was inspired by the creativity some of the other – "cooler" kids had displayed in their coordinated locker wallpaper, mirrors, whiteboards, shelves, and stickers. He didn't have enough time nor money to go all out like he wanted to, but Alfred found a small stuffed alien to hang on the inside of his locker door; no bigger than his palm, and with big brown eyes that were entirely anatomically inaccurate, in his opinion. He named it Tony. After packing it with his homework one night, he had fully intended to hang it the next day in school. But upon his arrival to school the next morning, he realized he had no way to hang it. He'd always meant to find a way to stick Tony in his locker, but he never got around to it. Instead, Alfred carried the thing with him everywhere for the rest of the year.

Since he was still a 6th grader, his teachers thought it was endearing and complimented him on how cool "Tony" was. He agreed, but not all of the other students did. He was never one to be bullied, seeing as he and his brother simply stuck out so little back then that no one aside from their fellow elementary school classmates remembered them long enough to consider picking on Alfred for something as stupid as a stuffed alien. Though, this was a lucky break, since the old classmates he already knew had quickly abandoned each other after starting at this new school, so there would have been no safety in past friendships. And within the next few years, it would only be his brother that didn't stick out anymore – but at least back then, he had been safe.

A few kids didn't mind the strangeness of Tony; partially because they took comfort in the fact that someone else was just as much of an outlier as them and was getting socially isolated because of it. Some of these kids would become Alfred's best friends.

He met Francis and Arthur in art class during the first few days, and was immediately drawn to Francis' unapologetic spunkiness and passion. But to be honest, Alfred thought Arthur was pretty weird from the start, and the Brit had his own friends that gave Alfred second-hand embarrassment. But, Arthur was always by Francis' side, even if they only argued for the most part, so Alfred just had to get used to the both of them.

On one hand, he envied them because Francis was so happy with dressing how he wanted to and Arthur with shameless flaunting his weird interests, but on the other hand, Alfred cringed for them and himself. He knew how cruel children could be, and he knew that most of their classmates laughed and teased them for their uncanny ability to stand out.

But, as guilty as it made him feel, he was jealous to know that the attention was on those two and not Alfred – even if he was the kid that carried a stuffed alien with them everywhere. As ironic as it was, Francis and Arthur didn't carry anything abnormal with them – just the bare minimum school supplies. Occasionally, Francis would bring his personal sketches to school and flaunt them to nearly everyone. They were good drawings, and there was a lot of talent on those pages, but Alfred couldn't help but feel embarrassed because the drawings were always of nude male models. He suspected Francis was just seeking approval from anyone that was willing to give it, and it scared him that his friend was going to get hurt anytime by a few thoughtless words from a peer just because of something they carried with them in hopes of feeling better that day.

Alfred still regretted not doing anything aside from worrying about Francis. His fears were legitimate, but directed towards only one friend when he should have been worried about both. As the year progressed and 7th grade came along, the teasing and bullying Arthur and Francis got increased. Francis got shit for a lot of things besides his blatant interest in all genders; mainly, his sociable personality that had only just begun to reveal itself in 6th grade. Francis carried an attitude about him that overwhelmed most kids, including Alfred. Some people called Francis arrogant, too flirty (a few dared to call him a slut). Arthur was called annoying and a know-it-all. They both created one hell of a façade, though.

It wasn't until years later that Alfred learned how much it all got to them, especially Arthur. While Francis was able to, for the most part, forget about the other students and just do his own thing, after being bullied so much, Arthur started carrying a journal in his backpack. Whenever Arthur didn't have anyone to talk to, he'd write in it, and pretend that he was talking to someone that cared and wouldn't make fun of him.

The journal was beautiful on the outside: blue and gold bordering with pink and turquoise flowers ornamenting a hyper-realistic peacock that Arthur had outlined in black ink. Whenever Arthur was particularly stressed, he would scribble aggressively on the inside of the front cover. In a fit of tears, two pages were ripped out from the back. No other pages were harmed, but the small scraps of paper still holding onto the inner spine stuck out like a bad scar. Most of Arthur's refuge was in mystic stuff that Alfred never quite understood - things like seeking help from the elements and turning one's emotions into power (or so Alfred had heard).

It was depressing for Alfred to think about now, to wonder how sad a person had to be to write all of those things that Arthur did. Alfred wondered if Arthur had felt as sad and isolated as he himself did nowadays. It briefly crossed his minds that Alfred's cold attitude toward Arthur these past few weeks might be sending Arthur back to that time that he received the same treatment from everyone but Alfred.

It's not like that time lasted that long, though. It was in 7th grade that Alfred made friends with another pariah of the grade. Coincidentally, Kiku and Arthur had known each other long before either of them met Alfred. While attending the same elementary school, the two of them had started out friends, but something happened. Something always happens. Not some giant blowout fight, or unforgivable backstabbing, it was just something. The last few years before coming to middle school, Kiku began to hate Arthur, and they lost the connection.

Kiku was always a somewhat depressing character, and stressful to be around. Always on edge of anxiety and snapping at the smallest annoyances, he and Alfred got off on the wrong foot in their first year together.

It was ironic how much Kiku had changed since then. Last time Alfred checked, these days Kiku was the epitome of collected and on point.

But in 7th grade, Kiku was still friendless. Classes forced them to be together, and eventually Alfred stopped thinking that he was rude and self-absorbed and realized they shared more in common than they realized. Kiku began bringing his own manga books to school for Alfred to read, and he'd keep them for a few weeks at a time before returning them. That was the extent of their relationship at that time, however, so Alfred never knew better than to assume that the copious amount of doodles in Kiku's planner were products of laziness and lack of diligence. Kiku was, and still was, very diligent and wasn't even close to being lazy. The truth was, Kiku rarely slept or ate or drank water or really did any basic function needed to survive. When he was feeling stressed and tired during class, drawing characters that he loved gave the young Japanese boy something to focus on other than the impulse to either cry or fall asleep. It didn't always drive away the oncoming panic attacks, but drawing dragons and monsters and retracing the lines over and over helped him cope.

It's been months and months since Alfred had been to Kiku's house, but he was pretty sure that Kiku still had that planner in his bookshelf. Back then, Alfred didn't know what his friends were struggling with, and maybe if he'd been around enough to see things like journals and violent images in planners instead of trying to be Mr. Popular, he wouldn't have had to find out years later that he and his friends were all getting worse.

This was so stupid. Here he was reminiscing about how awful he was to ignore his friend's problems all those years ago, but he was so much worse now. Alfred hadn't even _spoken _to Kiku since the last few days of school. He'd seen Arthur once and had a short conversation over the phone. He didn't know if Francis was even still in the States or not for the summer. Matthew fucking _lived _with him and Alfred could still occasionally realize he'd forgotten what his brother looked like.

It was so selfish of him to avoid the people he loved. In a few months, he'd have to face them all again because he didn't choose to just take the year off.

Suddenly Alfred felt himself begin to panic, or maybe he was just starting to cry, or maybe it was both. He got up quickly and walked away from the backpack on the floor, grabbing a spare blanket from his bed and covering the offending object with it.

He didn't want to think about his friends or school or his family right now. Alfred didn't want to think about anything.

* * *

Without even realizing it, his birthday had snuck up on him. Alfred was shocked to learn that July 4th was only days away. Never once had he ever forgotten about his birthday, which was usually his favorite day of the year next to Halloween and Christmas.

Usually, his dad would take the brothers out to one of the big white tents set up in a grocery store parking lot to buy all kinds of fireworks. The bigger ones were expensive (not to mention slightly illegal), but his father never seemed to have a problem with spending a few hundred dollars every year to buy all the fireworks he and Matt wanted, even if it meant that every year Alfred had to turn the music all the way up on his iPod that night to avoid hearing his mother yelling at dad about wasting money they can't afford to waste.

Alfred didn't want to celebrate his birthday this year. It meant nothing to him anymore. There was nothing special about being seventeen, anyway. But his mom was encouraging him to at least get out of the house and do something, so he finally called up Arthur and asked him to go on that date he had promised himself he'd bring up.

Arthur had immediately agreed to meet up with Alfred for food and a movie before watching the city's fireworks from Alfred's rooftop. How could he not? It was going to be Alfred's birthday.

"Have you heard of Alimento Veleno?" Arthur asked while discussing the dinner plans.

"No? Sounds Italian…"

"It is," Arthur affirmed, then began chuckling.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, it's just that the last time I dined there, I actually met one of the grandsons of the restaurant's owner. He's about our age, worked as a waiter. A bit annoying if I say so myself, but that's not the point. I think he said his name was Feli? Anyway, he was very talkative, and so of course I did the polite thing and, ah, _humored_ him with some conversation - but I'm glad I did, because the name of the restaurant is actually a joke within their family. It literally translates to 'Food Poison', but this is a four-star restaurant. Their family likes to listen to clueless English speakers try to sound posh by talking about how 'high class Alimento Veleno' is. I laughed pretty hard."

Alfred was a little surprised at how easily he laughed along at Arthur's story, "Sounds like some pretty fun people run that place. We should definitely go. Maybe I could meet this Feli dude, too."

"Wonderful, I was hoping my story would win you over so I didn't sound desperate to go back."

Alfred felt light hearted after their conversation, but there was no time for dwelling in his happiness. There was so much to tell Arthur about, he couldn't forget anything. He was finally getting the chance to tell someone what he felt; he couldn't afford to leave something out. Excitement bubbling in his chest, he ignored the vague twisting in his gut as he stayed up into the early hours, mentally reciting to himself everything that needed to be said.

* * *

Matthew had just begun to here the first backyard fireworks going off in the neighborhood when the garage door audibly swung open and slammed shut moments later. There was no one else it could be, given that their mother was taking a shower or something, but it still surprised him to see Alfred come marching through, looking entirely unhappy.

He didn't look on the verge of tears, though, so Matthew felt it safe to prod until he found out why Alfred was home from the date he was supposed to be on so early.

"Hey, Al. Didn't you just leave like an hour ago to see Arthur?"

Alfred stopped in front of Matthew and scowled. "Yeah, your point?"

"Well…usually when people go on dates they actually stay with their date instead of turning around and coming home after being there for, what, you couldn't have been with Arthur for more than twenty minutes," Matthew stated matter-of-factly, if not with a hint of sass.

"Well, it's not a big secret that I'm not exactly usual, is it?" Alfred bit back.

Matthew was slightly taken aback by the sharpness in his brother's voice. He contemplated how to approach the subject gracefully without getting yelled at.

"Al…I know that you wouldn't actually end the date early for no good reason. But I can't read your mind – I don't know what happened."

Alfred stared at Matthew for a while before sighing, some of the tension melting away from his posture as he came to sit on the opposite side of the couch. He shrugged and started, "I don't know, it's not actually a big deal. We actually ended the date early because he got a message from his mom or something, I guess his aunt and little cousin Peter had shown up with food to congratulate his mom on her promotion at work or something. Anyway, she wanted him to be there to talk with the family and stuff so he had to go."

"Oh," Matthew responded dumbly. "I didn't know his mom got a promotion."

Alfred laughed, "Yeah, me neither. It was sort of out of the blue that he told me, but I really haven't been keeping up with his life, so…" Alfred trailed off, mood plummeting again, fast.

Matthew hurried to ease his brother's guilt, "Hey, I didn't know about it either. I don't think he's mentioned it to many people if neither of us knew, so don't feel bad about that. And Al, no one's expecting you to stay involved with everyone right now. Everyone gets it, okay?"

Alfred wasn't looking at Matthew, worrying a scab on his hand from who knows what between his fingernails.

"Okay?" Matthew pressed further.

"…Yeah, okay. I know you aren't expecting any of that from me right now, but I don't think you can speak for Arthur. He got a little angry at me for not telling him anything."

"Not telling him anything? About what happened to dad, or?"

Alfred shifted to face Matthew straight on, "No, about what's happening to – with _me_. I mean, I don't know, Mattie, I went in there totally meaning to tell him and explain everything that's going on and stuff, because he deserves to know and all, but then he just started asking questions and I got pissed off and snapped at him and then he got like really passive aggressive but we didn't fight or anything because that's when his mom sent him the text and I came home."

It didn't really surprise Matthew that Alfred got mad when Arthur asked questions. He'd snapped at Matthew more than once, and while he knew that his brother and Arthur were close (hell, they _were _dating), he also knew that Alfred trusted and tolerated his brother infinitely more than anyone outside the family.

"I'm sorry Arthur didn't give you a chance to tell him in your own time. But that's not your fault okay?" Matthew reached over and gently held his brother's wrist. "He'll get over it, he'll understand why you snapped at him."

Alfred just pulled his arm away from Matthew's loose grip and grimaced. "Yeah. Maybe. He's dense."

Matthew laughed at that, and Alfred smiled a little, too.

The two of them decided to watch T.V. after that, but Matthew fell asleep not long after their mother came in and turned off the lights, grumbling something about saving electricity. Alfred returned to his room, as per usual, and purposefully avoided looking at the lumpy blanket covering his backpack in the corner.

He was beginning to worry about how possible it would be to maintain his friendships with everyone. It'd never really been a problem until now, but after how Arthur reacted...If Alfred got so upset at his own boyfriend asking questions, how would he react to someone like Francis? Kiku wouldn't prod, but he knew the smaller boy wouldn't hesitate to let the friendship drift apart if that's what it took to keep the peace.

Alfred looked out his window.

He let himself feel marvel over the fantastical bursts of light and sound as he watched the fireworks explode in the sky across the city. Alfred's nose felt cold where it almost touched his bedroom window as he sat on the floor and leaned against the windowsill, taking in the hypnotic display from a distance.

It was safe in his room; sacred, even, in that moment. This moment was his alone, and he only allowed himself a brief twinge of guilt and anxiety as he realized that he was relieved that Arthur wasn't there, after all. That Matthew wasn't there. His mom wasn't there. It was just Alfred in his dark room. His worries couldn't reach him, there. It made the absence of his father's all-knowing presence just a little less startling and a little more bearable.

The red fireworks were always the brightest, and for a moment, the light was so bright that it filled Alfred's senses; a second where there was no room left in him for sadness or anxiety – only childish wonder. It was intoxicating, and Alfred could almost feel himself becoming addicted to the small adrenaline rush at each burst of light.

Time was finally slowing down again, and the brief bliss helped him forget the day. Night, like an overcast day, suited him, Alfred thought, apathetically noting that before Arthur started getting irritated with him on a regular basis, he used to call Alfred the sun.

But the sun had set, and Alfred was still there.

* * *

Second chapter finally finished and up. That took so long to write because of the inaction. I'm much more excited about the chapters about to come, but I had to get past this one first. Also I forgot to do this last chapter - all the chapters are named after songs from the playlist i made for this story.

Last chapter (Blue Lips) : /watch?v=ccZuKOTb6ug

This chapter (Into the Ocean) : /watch?v=y7y92XOW1PY


	3. Little Death

**CONTENT WARNING: **Mentions of alcohol abuse, heavily implied and mentions of self-harm, and Alfred has very negative thoughts about himself. If any of this makes you too uncomfortable...well I don't know why you're reading this story, really. Cause it's only going to get worse from here on out.

* * *

Clearly, something had been wrong. Alfred noticed the change in his dad fairly quickly. While he'd never been the most active or patient father around, he was good humored, passionate, focused, loving, hardworking – traits that all started to fade a month or so into Alfred's sophomore year. When they broke the news to him, announcing that multiple myeloma was causing the change in his dad's behavior, Alfred felt that he'd seen it coming. He remembered hearing his mother say something about it being cancer inside the bones, but Alfred wasn't listening enough to process it.

He wasn't shocked. He was uncomfortable and a little sad, but he wasn't upset. Honestly, he just wanted to go back to procrastinating on his algebra homework. Maybe he actually had been in shock - maybe he'd just shut down long before they started talking to him – whatever had happened to him that day, it was only the beginning of a long routine of muted emotional responses that aggravated his mother to no end. Alfred never had that sense of denial that everyone seemed to want him to have – they wanted him to be normal and have moments where he believed that his dad's cancer wasn't real. But he knew it was real; that was never an issue. Technically, his problem was the opposite: unlike his mother, brother, and practically everyone else who spoke to him about the matter, Alfred never once believed that his dad would get better. It was always a possibility, he guessed, but he didn't allow himself to be hopeful. His father was dying; it didn't take a fucking doctor to see that.

There'd been a day in school, a particularly bad day, when he'd started crying in health class. His dad hadn't played the radio in the car, and Alfred cried. They always listened to music in the morning when dad was driving the brothers to school. Always. But his dad had been too tired that morning. Had a headache. The health teacher asked Alfred why he was crying in the hall, and Alfred couldn't really answer. "I'm just angry," he told her, wiping at his tears with his sleeve as an excuse to shield his quivering lips from her gaze, trying to maintain some dignity in front of the adult.

"Who are you angry at?" she'd asked him.

Who _had_ he been angry at? Alfred couldn't remember. He was pretty pissed at the doctors for telling him that his dad could pull through. Pissed at his brother for believing the doctors, for stupidly holding onto useless hope. Honestly, a little pissed at his dad for not being in his life anymore because of the fatigue caused by a dying body – in the beginning, there had been a small thought of, "Get over it," in Alfred's mind, but he always suppressed it, knowing that it was stupid and impossible and inconsiderate.

Then there was his mother. Alfred had always tried so hard to force himself to see that he was being unreasonable in his anger towards her. But every time, anger pushed logic down and demanded attention.

_You're just projecting your anger at her._

**_But._**

_No one is handling this well, you can't place any more blame on her than anyone else._

**_But._**

That's how it always went. He'd try to check the facts, to articulate the injustice in his growing hatred towards the woman that brought him into the world. But anger would rear its ugly head, tap into his ego, and suddenly he felt like he was letting her win, letting her get away with it. Before he could make amends and forgive her, Alfred would shove her out of his heart and mind all over again. It didn't help that there were legitimate things to be angry about.

She had always enjoyed having a drink or two, almost nightly. There'd never been a problem with it. It wasn't until one night in February, only months after the first diagnosis, did Alfred realize a problem when the found gallon-sized bottle of vodka that his mother had bought two days ago in the trashcan – empty. Alfred never said a word, just harbored the secret that he was never meant to see.

He saw her differently after that. Her existence in their house made him sick. How could she do that to the family? To him? To his _dad_? Why couldn't she just move on with life and deal with what had to be done right then like the rest of them? Alfred and Matthew did their homework. His dad diligently went to the hospital for weekly checkups and attended physical therapy without complaint. Where did his mother get the idea that she was somehow exempt from her responsibilities as a mother, as an employee? She always got on his case about keeping his grades up, especially during such hard times, to make his father proud. What a dirty trick. Guilt tripping him when she had lost control of her own damn self?

Alfred had began to resent his mother. But still, he never told Matthew or his father about her drinking. He didn't want to hurt them. He had enough anger for all of them.

Naturally, that came to bite him in the ass, just like everything else in his life. He never got to talk to her before she was taken by ambulance to the ER when she had taken too many sleeping pills while drunk. His dad had to walk to his room on frail legs, mid April, to tell Alfred where his mother was going.

When she came back home a week later after spending some time in the behavioral health unit, she sat him down on his bed and promised to go sober for a year, that she never wanted to do something like that to him. Alfred just wanted her to get off his bed and out of his room so he could get back online to watch YouTube videos and Netflix. She was alive, that's all that mattered. While Matthew had jumped to meet her at the door and hugged her and attended to her every need, her presence back at home instead of in the hospital didn't really matter to him. It's not like she was really there for him anymore, anyway.

But she had promised to stay sober all those months ago.

That's why, for the past ten minutes, Alfred had been on her bathroom floor, just sitting there. The cabinet door was still wide open.

He'd gotten a paper cut while putting all the loose-leaf paper into a new binder he'd gotten for school with Matthew - there was only a week left before they started again. Alfred wouldn't have cared about the cut, except that he'd started getting blood on his school supplies and Matthew said that there was a first aid kit somewhere in the bathroom his parents used to share.

Alfred still hadn't found the Band-Aids, but he'd found the stash of alcohol under the sink: a couple large glass bottles of vodka, a six-pack of beer, and two wine bottles. Most of them were close to empty. Of course, Alfred had no way to know how much had been consumed and when – he hadn't even known his mother had been buying any of this at all. It didn't really make a difference.

She _promised_.

The cut had stopped bleeding, and he realized that there was no point in staying there any longer, so Alfred got up, still in shock, and closed the door. He didn't want to be in that room anymore.

Matthew, as observant as ever, noticed the shift in his brother's attitude when he walked back into the living room, still no Band-Aid.

"What's wrong?" his brother stopped labeling the notebook in his hand with the Sharpie.

One would think that Alfred learned his lesson about hiding these kinds of secrets, but looking at Matthew's innocent face, filled with worry for Alfred (worry that their mother clearly didn't feel)…

"Nothing. I couldn't find anything that'd stay on my finger. It stopped bleeding anyway, so it doesn't really matter."

They continued labeling and organizing, groaning about all the work to come, ignoring the fact that Alfred would actually have a lot less homework than Matthew because of the dropped math class that came with his partial medical leave. It was awkward enough just knowing that Alfred was handling life worse than Matthew; they didn't need to put it out in the open, not even to crack a joke about it.

Leave it to Alfred to be the one to stand out in all the wrong ways.

If only he could go back to being under the radar like in elementary school. Now he was going to stand out more than ever. The guy whose dad died, part of the only openly gay relationship in the junior class, and now the guy that didn't have to take math because he's on a partial medical leave. Alfred was going to get shit from his classmates, and he couldn't deny he was afraid. The last thing he needed was an alcoholic mother on top of his soured reputation at school.

That's why he decided to confront his mother when she came home after having dinner with a friend. He almost felt bad for ruining her good mood, but his anger boiled over when he looked at her oblivious face. She was happy because she thought her secret was still a secret, and Alfred couldn't stand the dishonesty.

He waited until Matthew had gone to sleep, when he could get his mother alone in the kitchen.

"Hey, _mom_," he started, heart already pounding in his chest. He felt like he didn't know how to talk to her anymore, which was frightening enough, but to top it off, he was purposefully starting an argument - and it would be an argument. There was no way he could say this without her jumping to the defense.

She looked up from the pile of paperwork and her checkbook, startled. She was still unaware, though. There was no way she knew what he knew. Must have just been surprised that he was starting a conversation with her at all instead of staying in his room. "Hi, sweetheart. What's up?"

"I have a question to ask you."

"Okay? Would you like to sit down? I was just trying to balance the checkbook before going to bed—"

"I was looking for the first aid kit in your bathroom earlier, and I checked under the sink."

Realization spread across her face, and she leaned back a little, hiding behind her glasses as her lips pressed into a thin line. "Oh."

"Mom," he took a deep breath, hoping it would give him the strength to go through with shattering any possibility of pretending like he didn't know. Instead, he felt the damn begin to break, "Why the fuck is there a shit ton of alcohol in there?"

"Hey! Watch your language!" she scolded, giving him a sharp look. But she was just avoiding the question.

"Who the fuck cares about language," he retorted, a bit more aggressively than intended or needed. "Seriously, what the fuck mom? What the _fuck_? You _promised me_ \- you fucking said, you told me you were going to be sober for a year. It's been, what, _four months_ since then?" He couldn't help the way his voice was raising with every word. He mentally noted that Matthew could probably hear him from his room, and the shame in that was all that was keeping him from straight up yelling.

His mom began taking the side of defense, as expected, and wouldn't make it easy for him to contain his anger.

"Alfred, you watch your tone with me," she glared, being as menacing as she could be in her pajamas. "You don't know the half of what I've been going through."

"So what? I don't know, so that gives you the right to drink your problems away? That's so - like are you shitting me right now?"

"I have a right to do whatever I want, so don't you dare speak to me like that. I've done so much for you and Matthew, it's not nearly as easy as you may think."

Despite the anger, his heart was racing, telling him to shut up already.

_Shut up shut up turn back apologize and pretend this never happened just go to sleep it'll be gone in the morning._

He could see the way she looked at him like he was a piece of shit of a son, and he knew he was. But he'd already started the fight, he couldn't bear to give in and let her think that she could get

away with this. Pulling the parent card wasn't going to work on him this time. Alfred's family was already broken apart, this was all he could do to keep the pieces together, at least a little.

"I don't care, mom! So you lost your husband? Well Mattie and I lost our dad, okay? You don't see us avoiding our fucking responsibilities like you are right now. I mean, _Jesus_, we're about to start school in a week, you can't just do this to us!"

Shock and unveiled anger radiated off of his mother. The comment about her losing her husband - he'd gone too far and he knew it. It wasn't fair, but he couldn't take it back.

"What exactly am I supposed to do?" she began yelling as well, her voice cracking disgustingly. Alfred's stomach churned. "Yes, I've slipped. I'm so sorry that I broke my promise, I am. But I'm human, I have emotions, too, and I need to grieve. And you know what? I can't do that because _you_ keep pushing me away! You know, you shouldn't have even been going through my cabinets in the first place, that's not where the first aid kit is. You always make such a big deal of wanting privacy in your own room, privacy from _me_, but suddenly everyone else's stuff is your territory? Everyone else's boundaries don't matter! That's bullshit!"

She's right, of course.

"Oh, you're gonna fucking blame me now? For wanting a stupid Band-Aid?" Alfred felt the guilt start to eat his core, and he lashed out more. "You're just trying to change the subject. You know what, if you think a stash of alcohol is something that I shouldn't be seeing, you already know damn well that you shouldn't have it in the first place. And guess what, you got problems? Go to Matthew or some shit or just get over it! I don't understand why you're trying to make me feel bad for something I'm not even responsible for. We're all hurting, you aren't special!"

_Oh my god, Alfred, **shut up** already!_

Alfred's mother stood from her chair and moved away from Alfred, leaning against the kitchen counter to stare him down at full height, now. She'd started crying. "_Why_ are you being such a brat?! See, this is exactly what I'm talking about! Whenever I try to reach out to you, you just make me feel like _shit_-"

"Wow, look who's using language now-" _Shut up, Alfred._

"_Alfred_! I can't win with you! It's like I'm walking on eggshells around you! What I need is both of my sons right now; I need to grieve with the both of you. But you keep rejecting me. Sometimes, all I'd like is to have a moment with you, to cry with you, to comfort each other," she made a point to wipe away the tears from her puffy red eyes, "But clearly you don't want that, so I have to sacrifice my own healing to make you feel better all the time! I feel like you don't even care about me."

Alfred groaned in irritation, "Holy shit mom, how don't you get it? Please just stop making everything about you! I don't deal with shit the same way you do, you're just going to have to fucking get over that fact, okay? Get a therapist or something, I don't care what you do – but when you try to force me to sacrifice my personal space to help _you_ 'heal', it hurts me, okay? That's not okay! I can't take it!"

"_I_ hurt _you_?!" Real malice had worked its way into her voice.

For a moment, there was a spark of fear. Alfred had never been yelled at like this. His mother had never raised her voice at him like this. _You really should have shut up._

He'd seen her get mad, like really mad, the couple times he accidentally walked in on a fight between his parents, the fights that almost had them reaching for their lawyer's card, but that anger had never been directed at him. And honestly, it was getting to the point where he knew he deserved it. This had definitely not been the direction he'd wanted this to go. Really, he just wanted his mom to confess to slipping, apologize, then throw out everything and they'd all go back to the regular shitty life they had before he found out.

Alfred's voice cracked as he tried to speak just a little softer so she wouldn't yell at him so loudly, "_Yes_ you hurt me. Every time you try to hug me or talk about your feelings with me, despite the fact that I've made it clear I don't want to, it fucking hurts, mom!" Alfred viciously wiped his nose, trying to keep his own tears under control. "You say that you feel like I don't care about you? Well, same here! I'm just trying to deal with all this shit in the way that works best for me, and you just keep getting mad because it's not the way you want me to deal with it. You don't care about what's best for me, you just care about everyone making you feel better without regard to how _we_ feel."

She clenched the side of the counter harder and spit, "How _dare_ you imply that I don't care about my own children."

"Well how can possibly care for your kids when your drunk?!"

Finally, his mother was silent. Her eyes had widened for a moment before she looked to the side with thin-pressed lips, tensely moving further back and crossing her arms over her chest.

His heart rate began to slow, the silence amplifying the sound in his ears as the thumping steadily evened out. Alfred had no interest in staying in that kitchen with her anymore, and frankly didn't want to talk to her for at least a few days. While she was still saying nothing, he took the opportunity to officially shut down the conversation that he'd started.

"Deal with your shit how you want, but you can't neglect me and Matthew in the process. You're the only parent we have left – you don't get to fuck up like this."

Alfred turned around and all but ran back to his room, unable to look at his mother's face anymore. He felt like he'd help up his side enough, and he would have felt pride in his closing argument had he not felt so awful. He wasn't the parent, he had no right to talk like that. How could he have said something so awful? She probably hated him now. He'd fucked up the relationship for good.

When he slammed the door to his room, the noise just upset him further.

Eyesight heavily blurred from the fresh tears that welled in his eyes, Alfred struggled with typing out his message to Arthur.

_10:27 PM: "Arthur? R u still up? I need 2 talk…"_

_10:28 PM: "I'm still up, but I'm about to go to bed…"_

_10:28 PM: "Can't you u just stay up 4 a few more mins?"_

_10:30 PM: "Can it wait until morning? I really do have to go to bed."_

_10:30 PM: "I promise I'll listen in the morning"_

_10:34 PM: "Forget it. Not that important. Goodnight."_

_10:35 PM: " :/ Ok. Goodnight 3"_

Alfred carelessly threw his phone on the bed. Fuck Arthur. Couldn't he tell that Alfred wasn't okay? Or did he just not care. Alfred didn't see how losing twenty minutes of sleep could be so bad that Arthur would ignore him for it. Did Arthur really not care that much?

_Of course he doesn't. He's never really cared enough to put anyone before himself. **You're not special.**_

Feeling like utter shit and helpless, Alfred sat on the floor instead of his bed and picked at the dog hair stuck on the overhanging covers. The paper cut on his finger seemed to have opened up again – he probably scratched off the fresh scab at some point during the fight.

Using his fingers on the other hand, he gently prodded at the wound, trying to see if any more blood would come out, for no real reason other than curiosity and the distraction provided by even the smallest goal. Alfred's stomach clenched with annoyance and distress when nothing happened, despite the aggressive treatment he was giving the cut.

Frustrated, he sat there, wondering what to do. He couldn't sleep like this. The paper cut, raw and open, but bloodless, taunted him.

…He couldn't.

He'd never once considered it before.

But what would it feel like? He heard of people doing it, but it had never felt like a real thing he'd ever have to think about.

Surely it wouldn't matter if he just…tried it.

Alfred thought of the hatred his mother must feel for him, his destroyed family, how Arthur didn't even care to make sure he was okay, how much he doubted he'd be able to handle school because he was just weak and unprepared like that. He felt the guilt of fighting with his mother, the guilt of abandoning his friends over the summer.

_Just try it._

He couldn't sleep like this.

**_No one has to know._**

_I'm just satisfying my curiosity,_ he told himself. Even if he _wanted_ to…hurt himself…he had no idea how. Surely there was a better way than just grabbing an old kitchen knife. That seemed like overkill and cliché, and quite frankly, way too dangerous.

Alfred felt silly and gross, looking up how-to's online. Seriously, who was going to write an instruction page for this shit?

Several people, apparently, to Alfred's disgust and excitement. He couldn't believe this stuff was actually on the Internet.

All laid out for him to use...

* * *

Alfred was so grateful that he and Matthew both had provisional licenses, now. It saved him one hell of an awkward car ride with his mother. Instead, he sat shotgun and let Matthew drive the two of them to their first day of school. He would have driven, but he didn't think it'd be a great idea for him to drive with his nerves shot as much as they were.

Arthur had tried to call him in the morning about a week ago, the morning after the fight with his mother. Alfred stuck to the vague details. Arthur didn't care, anyway, he didn't want to work himself up over explaining something so complicated to someone who didn't want to know. Arthur had prodded a little, asking what the fight was about, but Alfred just didn't want to talk about it. The two of them hadn't spoken since. And now, Alfred was going to have to see Arthur face to face again, as well as the rest of his friends.

He hadn't heard any of their voices in months, and he was terrified. What if they wanted nothing to do with him? What if they didn't leave him alone? Or did they all just hate Alfred for ignoring them. He really hoped not. Because despite the fear, warmth blossomed in his chest at the thought of finally seeing them again, getting to hug them and hear their voices and be in their presence and know that they were real, that they were real and loved him. He missed talking to Kiku about fandoms and video games and science shit that no one else really cared about. He missed Francis' passion and grace, his inappropriate jokes that would make anyone else uncomfortable, but just made Alfred feel like there's nothing he could do or say that Francis would judge him for. He missed cracking jokes with anyone and everyone that would listen, regardless of if they were friends or not. It's because he missed all of this so much that he was so terrified of losing all of that because of his own stupid behavior.

So driving was out of the question, because anxiety plus unpracticed driving skills equaled crash waiting to happen, and Matthew understood. His brother had been overly understanding lately. He knew Mattie had heard the fight between him and their mother, but not a single word about it had been spoken. Alfred just really hoped that Matthew hadn't been able to make out exact words – Matthew didn't deserve to go through life knowing that their mother was a relapsed alcoholic.

Alfred wouldn't deny that there was another part of the driving arrangement that Matthew could never know about – not even Matthew would understand this. He'd realized that morning as he'd gotten dressed that the only long-sleeved shirt that was thin enough to prevent hyperthermia didn't go far enough down his arms to fully cover the cuts that were all in various stages of healing. As long as he kept his arms down, though, no one could see.

So, no driving for Alfred. That was one more thing he didn't need everyone else knowing

about.

He felt so out of place when they walked into the student common area together. Other students only glanced at them because of their entrance, but he couldn't help but feel that they were all looking at him, probably pitying him for his loss, viewing him as fragile or damaged. In a

way, Alfred kind of wanted them to think that. Maybe it would spare him from any bullying now that he and Arthur were publicly a thing. They may have gotten together about two months before the end of sophomore year, but they'd agree to hide it from the grade, at least, and wait to come out at the beginning of the next school year.

Of course, for them to be public about it, they had to start talking to each other again, first.

Since Matthew insisted on getting in the habit of showing up to school half an hour early to be safe, Alfred was tortured with the wait for any of his, or even some of Matthew's friends to show up.

Alfred almost thought he was going to cry when he caught sight of the short Japanese boy shuffle in with his giant backpack, eyes cast to the floor. Alfred jumped from the beaten down, stained, sad excuse of a couch and made somewhat of a scene calling Kiku to where they'd been sitting. Kiku wasn't one for physical contact most of the time, but that didn't stop Alfred from grabbing at his hands and pulling him to sit at a stray chair in front of them. To Alfred's relief and delight, Kiku's eyes shown brightly. There wasn't even a hint of unfriendliness or irritation.

"Alfred, it's so good to see you again," Kiku smiled warmly, shrugging his backpack off and carefully leaning it against the chair legs before taking a seat.

"Bro, holy shit, you too! I mean, I'd say I'd almost forgotten what you look like, but you know that could never happen."

"Of course. Speaking of which, I would have Skyped you a few days ago to compare schedules, but my computer wouldn't let me start it without updating it, and it's been doing that ever since."

Alfred laughed, "Ouch, dude. Gotta love Windows. But, um, here, I have my schedule with me, actually. Feel free to compare all you want."

It was mind-blowing how easy this was. Talking to Kiku, just being happy. Kiku hadn't given up on him after all. And, Kiku wasn't asking questions about what had happened over the summer, to Alfred's relief. It seemed like, just as always, Kiku only cared about the present.

Alfred wondered why he ever worried it'd be different.

Kiku wasn't Arthur.

Turns out, he and Kiku didn't have any classes together, and suddenly his good mood had gone south again, just in time for Arthur and Francis to show up at the same time, minutes before school started.

Francis spoke to Alfred first, shockingly, "Wow, nice couch. Is this going to be the new hangout? Because quite frankly, I don't think I'm worthy enough to lounge on such fine home furnishings," Francis looked sadly at the monstrosity of a couch for a moment before grinning and pulling Alfred up into a hug. "It's so nice to see you, _ami_. I haven't even heard from you in, well, _months_."

Alfred pulled away with a grimace and stared off to the side, "Ah, yeah. Look, I'm super sorry for not talking to you. It was a…a rough summer I guess."

Francis raised his brows, "Rough? Alfred, you've practically gone through hell. We all understand. Just, ah, I'd like to hear about how your life is going directly from you."

"Oh, um, yeah. Again, I'm really sorry. I…wait, directly from me?"

"I've been getting regular updates from him," Francis motioned to Arthur, "because even if you don't want to talk to me, I still worry about how you're doing."

Alfred stared blankly at Arthur and Francis for a moment, taking in the information. He didn't even know that Arthur had been talking to Francis at all, nevertheless sharing details about his life with him. Alfred was fine with Francis knowing, hell he would have told him directly had he worked up the energy to do so, but something about the two of them talking about him – and Arthur never mentioning it – scratched at his mind.

But first period was starting soon, and school was not the place to talk about this with Arthur. Instead, the two of them, coincidentally sharing the same class first period, walked together after saying goodbye to their friends, making small talk.

The air between them was awkward, though Alfred knew that logically, it shouldn't be. Something still didn't feel right, but there was nothing he could think to ask. When Alfred tried complaining about how he was going to have to make up a year of math over next summer, Arthur responded politely, but only out of necessity, it seemed. When Alfred brought up how he was mostly upset because his dad wouldn't be there to help him with the problems at home, Arthur just solemnly agreed and said he was sorry, but nothing more. There was a very strong feeling in Alfred's gut that Arthur didn't want to talk to him, and his heart began to sink. Either this was just a bad time to talk because of the environment and all, or he was doing something wrong.

Alfred just couldn't shake the feeling for the rest of the day that there was something he was missing.

* * *

Chapter End Notes

Both Alfred and his mother are being shitty, honestly. But it's important to remember that it is her responsibility as a mother and experienced adult to find a way to handle herself better. This isn't really a this or that, situation - Alfred is still learning AND is responsible for his actions. While his age isn't an excuse, it's still a truth that needs to be remembered. His mother, however, isn't in a place where she has any flexibility to make these kinds of mistakes. She has two teenage boys to care for all on her own - the pressure on her is exactly why she /shouldn't/ turn to things like alcohol. She loves them, and this is not acceptable behavior.

Sorry for that rant, but I really needed to make that clear. The fight scene between them is an actual fight that I had with my mother a few years ago, and let me tell you, I said nasty things to her that hurt her, but I literally grew up with that kind of treatment from her, permanently changing my personality and psyche. Teenagers are impressionable. Their environment is still important.

Recognize when you're parents aren't acting like parents anymore and talk to someone if you need to.

Song for this chapter: /watch?v=F5qBPQz20Ow


End file.
